The Master on David Cameron
by eimi lexie
Summary: What would happen if the Master knew he'd been replaced with David Cameron? Should probably have uploaded this nearer the elections but oh well! LoTL AU, rated for language. Now extended! With chapters and everything. Enjoy.
1. They've what?

**The Master On David Cameron**

**Disclaimer: Doctor Who does not belong to me. Neither, thank goodness, does David Cameron.**

**A/N: Sorry if it's bad. I wrote this in about five minutes. Does what it says on the tin, really. What would happen if the Master knew he'd been replaced with David Cameron.**

* * *

The Master was bored.

Really, really bored.

And it was all because of that stupid, deluded Martha Jones and her rose-tinted view of the Doctor. Damn her and her message of hope. She'd defeated him with hope. Bloody _hope!_

And then Jack bloody Harkness had had to go and stop Lucy shooting him. Of course, Jack had thought she wanted to shoot the Doctor. Not that it mattered; whatever Jack had thought it had resulted in the Master being hauled off to the TARDIS and handcuffed to a chair for four hours.

Now, some time (because you were never quite sure how long ago things were on this ship) later, he was lounging on a sofa in front of a telly, idly flicking through the channels.

The news was on. Earth's news, for the 11th May 2010. The Master threw the remote onto the seat beside him and settled down to watch it.

There had been an election in England, by the looks of things. An election that seemed to have resulted in several days of arguing and some grovelling by the Lib Dems. Apparently they'd reached a decision. The news cut to a shot of the front door of 10 Downing Street.

The Master froze.

His hands clenched into fists and his jaw locked. His eyes, suddenly filled with the burning anger that had driven galactic leaders to beg him on their knees to spare them, narrowed into slits.

"No. No! No, no, no, _no!_"

He shouted something unintelligible and threw a book at the telly.

"How dare they! How bloody _dare _they!"

The Doctor, terrified that the Universe was once again under threat, burst into the room, eyes wild and hair in a mess.

"What? What is it? What's happened?"

"_Look!"_ the Master jabbed a finger towards the television.

The Doctor stared blankly at it for a few seconds and sighed. "Oh. That."

The Master shook with rage. "They've replaced me with David _fucking _Cameron!"


	2. Living Plastic

**Chapter Two - Living Plastic**

**Disclaimer: Neither Doctor Who nor Torchwood nor David Cameron nor Nick Clegg are mine. I have simply borrowed them all.**

**A/N: Well, I decided to continue it thanks to Titanic-fanatic who, after patiently reading through one of my rants on our _lovely _Prime Minister (oh, the sarcasm's just _oozing _off the screen, isn't it?) came up with the idea of David Cameron actually _being _living plastic. So I took the idea (with permission, obviously) and wrote about it. Could you please tell me if you want me to put the Torchwood team in this? Just leave a quick comment once you've read it and I'll let you decide. Thanks to Titanic-fanatic, Google Eleanor, AstareaAegle and LyricsArePoetry for reviewing the last chapter. Off we go!**

* * *

"Master, please calm down."

"Why the bloody hell should I?" the Time Lord sat on the edge of the sofa with clenched teeth and white knuckles. He wouldn't stop glaring at the television screen.

"Master…you knew they'd have to replace you."

He finally turned away from the telly to give the Doctor a withering look. "Yes, Doctor. Of course I did. But why did they have to replace me with that stuck-up, moronic plastic _bastard? _He looks like he should be running for Upper Class Twit of the Year. He's a complete and utter _twat_, Doctor. Surely you can see that?"

The Doctor rubbed the back of his neck and gazed at the floor by his foot. "Well…he's not…exactly…Look, maybe he's not the world's best Prime Minister but –"

"Ha!"

The Doctor glared. "_But _evidently he's good enough to get elected. How bad can he really be?"

The Master stared blankly at his old friend for a long, long time.

"Doctor."

"What?"

"_I _was good enough to get elected. I had a _ninety-six percent_ majority. What does that tell you about the British public, hm? They're _idiots. _Suggestible, easily fooled idiots."

The Doctor was, for once in his life, speechless. He swallowed and began to form that horrible hurt expression that made the Master want to break things.

"They're not…they're not idiots…"

"They voted for _me_. I'm a nine-hundred-and-seven-year-old Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey. I enslaved the entire human race and assassinated the President of the United States. I hypnotised them using their _mobile phones._"

"Exactly!" the Doctor pulled his hand away from his neck and jabbed a finger in the Master's general direction, "It wasn't their fault! You hypnotised them!"

"Using their mobile phones."

"Well…" the Doctor hopped about a bit, trying to come up with a decent response, "you hypnotised them. That's the main thing. If you had to say what the important thing there was it would be that. That would be the thing."

The Master rolled his eyes and swung his legs up onto the sofa, stretching out like a cat and glaring at the ceiling.

The Doctor rubbed the back of his neck again and took a hesitant step forward. "Master?"

"What?"

"It's really bothering you, isn't it?"

The Master didn't even look at the other Time Lord when he said, "Piss off, Doctor."

The Doctor rolled his eyes and turned back to the door. "Well, whatever. I'll see you later, I suppose?"

The Master grunted vaguely and the Doctor left.

Precisely three minutes and two seconds later the Doctor burst back into the room and switched the telly, which the Master had turned off one minute and fifty-five seconds beforehand, back on.

"What are you _doing_, Doctor? Why are you subjecting me to images of that _wanker_? Is this some bizarre new method of torture you've concocted to punish me for being such a naughty boy on the Valiant? Because if it is then I can think of several other, more effective ways for you to do it."

The Doctor ignored him and continued to stare intently at the television screen. Fortunately he was blocking the Master's view of it, so all the Time Lord on the sofa could see was the edge of 10 Downing Street and the Doctor's ridiculously skinny legs.

The Doctor dropped the remote and sat down on the Master's shins.

"Ow."

"Shut up. This could be important."

They sat in silence, the Doctor watching the Prime Minister intently as a BBC News reporter interviewed him, the Master glaring at the other Time Lord in an attempt to make him stand up.

The interview ended and the News changed to some story about the environment. The Doctor switched the telly off again.

"What was all that about?" the Master asked him.

"I…I don't know. I just have this odd feeling about David Cameron."

"Why?" the Master had become resigned to the fact that the Doctor would be sat on his shins for a while yet.

"There's something not quite right about him. Something very not quite right about him. In fact there is something distinctly _off _about him."

"Yes Doctor. That would be the aura of twatishness he exudes all. The. Time."

"No, no, I'm being serious!"

"So am I."

The Doctor frowned and pressed his fingertips to his temples. "There's something…I don't know what it is…he's just…_wrong._"

"I know."

"No! Hang on!" The Doctor jumped up and spun round to stare at the Master. "You said it yourself, before I left. You said it!"

"Doctor, what are you babbling about?"

"No! No, you said, before I left you said he was a moronic plastic bastard."

"Yes, I know. I was there."

"_Plastic! _That's what's wrong with him! He's not human – he's living plastic!"

The Master frowned. "You mean he's being controlled by the Nestene Consciousness?"

"Yes!"

The Master shrugged. "Oh, well. We've defeated it before. Shouldn't be too much trouble. Give UNIT a ring and tell them about it – I'm sure they're grown up enough to handle it by themselves."

The Doctor shook his head. "Oh no. No, we are doing this _together_. Consider it part of your community service – a way of paying back your considerable debt to the human race."

"Do I have to?"

"Yes. Come on!"

When the Master finally wandered into the console room, the Doctor was flying around the controls like some kind of pinstriped tornado, flicking switches and pulling levers and, to the Master's horror, hitting the console with a large hammer.

The Master wrinkled his nose. How the Doctor was still alive he would never know. As if constantly throwing himself into every manner of danger with no regard for his own safety wasn't enough, he flew the TARDIS like a backwards five-year-old that had eaten too much sugar. The ship landed with that horrible grating sound and the two Time Lords inside were thrown rather unceremoniously to the floor.

They sprang to their feet – well, the Doctor sprang and the Master stood up with at least some of his dignity intact – and the Doctor ran towards the doors.

"Don't you think we ought to check the...?"

"Don't worry about that! I'm sure it's fine!"

It may come as no surprise that it was not fine at all. The Doctor had once again got the coordinates wrong and landed them in the year 200,100. After being glared at by the Master for twenty-three seconds, the Doctor ran back to the controls and took off again.

"Right! I think I've got it this time." The Doctor pulled the screen round and checked the exterior vision fields.

"Yep. Definitely got it this time."

"We wouldn't have to worry about it if you'd just let me fly this thing, you know."

"Nice try. Come on!"

The Doctor sprinted across the grating to the doors again, and the Master had no choice but to follow.

The Doctor was already striding across the Plass when the Master called out to him.

"Where are we?"

The Doctor spun around and began walking backwards to talk to the other Time Lord. "Cardiff!"

The Master sniffed."…Two days after the election. Any particular reason?"

"We need to talk to Jack!"

The Master frowned. "Why?"

"Because he can help. And, he won't shoot you on sight. Hopefully!" And with that the Doctor hopped of to the Tourist Information Office.

The Master was not going to lower himself to running after him. He was _not_.

But, he decided that perhaps a gentle jog wouldn't be too undignified.

* * *

"Well, that was…shall we say _unsuccessful_?"

"I can't believe it's gone." The Doctor stared dully into a mug of tea and sighed.

The Master rolled his eyes. "These things happen."

"They were brilliant, you know. Absolutely bloody brilliant."

"I know. But come on, we've got work to do." The Master leaned back in his chair and stared hard at the top of the Doctor's head.

The Doctor looked up and grinned. "I've just had an idea,"

The Master swallowed his own tea and frowned. "What?"

"We could save them. It wouldn't be –"

"No."

"But- "

"No. For a start we'd be interfering with time, which is a violation of the Non-Interference Policy and I _know_ that that went out with the Time Lords but it's up to us to uphold the traditions, _and_ I don't like them that much. Frankly they're a nuisance. And I _know_ you love your little humans with _all_ your hearts and _all_ your soul but if we don't stop that uninspiring plastic bastard they're _all_ going to die. Ok?"

"Why are you helping me, anyway?"

"Don't think I've suddenly become a sanctimonious, eternally merciful champion of the Earth like you. I just can't stand him. And I refuse to be succeeded by that twit."

"You weren't. They replaced you with…someone else. I'm not sure who they replaced you with to be honest. Oh! I know, Aubrey Fairchild, that's it. Ah, Aubrey, he was a nice chap. Unlike you. But he died sometime last year. Not entirely sure why. Probably find out sooner or later. Anyway, after his death they had to find someone else so the leader of the opposition (i.e. David Cameron) saw his chance and took it."

The Master took another sip of his tea. "I see. So, who do you think will succeed Mr Cameron?"

"Nick Clegg I suppose. That'll be good for the Lib Dems, won't it? Though I have to say I prefer Labour, but I suppose you can't have everything. Although –"

"Doctor! I don't care. Can we just go, please?"

"Right, yes." He jumped up and pulled on his coat. The Master followed suit and they walked out, throwing a pound onto the table as they left.


	3. Hair Dye and Antiplastic

**Hair Dye and Anti-plastic**

**Disclaimer: Doctor Who does not belong to me, please don't sue.**

**A/N: I have been away for a while, and I'm sorry. Life has been rather getting to me of late, and I have exams coming up. Anyway, here it is. Chapter Three. I would have uploaded it sooner but Fanfiction was playing up. Although as it stands I've managed to post it on the anniversary of the coalition. Happy Anniversary, Mr Clegg and Mr Cameron. Apparently the honeymoon period is over for them now, and Cameron's bought Clegg a 'longer leash' - wasn't that nice of him?**

**Anyway, allons-y!**

* * *

One question now remained; how, if Torchwood Three had been destroyed and the British Government could no longer be trusted, were they going to get near the Prime Minister?

The Doctor had suggested UNIT. The Master had scoffed and pointed out that Martha now worked for UNIT, and revealed that, shockingly, he would rather not be shot in the head by a crazed ex-medical student.

So it seemed as though the two Time Lords were going to have to sort this particular mess out by themselves. Which, understandably, neither of them was too thrilled about.

The Doctor sighed. He hadn't realised how much he relied on the people of Earth. Usually when there was a crisis, he had some back up somewhere. But now…now he was, basically, alone. And he didn't like it.

It didn't help that the Master had buggered off to some forgotten corner of the TARDIS and was refusing to answer any of the Doctor's various attempts to contact him. He'd even tried restoring their old and long-since-forgotten psychic connection, but the Master's mind was like Fort Knox. And if he was honest the Doctor was somewhat out of practice.

So, with nothing else to do and a Prime Minister to depose (again) he wandered off to the TARDIS kitchen for a cuppa and a think.

They could always simply barge their way into 10 Downing Street and demand that the PM get lost. Somehow, though, the Doctor doubted that would go down well. It probably wouldn't be too difficult to for one of them to gain a position near the Prime Minister, but that would take too long; God knew what the Nestene Consciousness would have gotten up to by then.

So. What would they do? Obviously he couldn't let the Master be seen. And really the Doctor himself didn't fancy a job fetching tea and answering phones for a man made of living plastic.

Just as the Doctor had begun to fall into the deepest pits of despair the door flew open and the Master stood there framed in light from the hallway and holding in his right hand a small vial of blue fluid and a box.

"I have devised," he said, "a brilliant solution."

The Doctor blinked.

The Master flopped down in a chair opposite the other, somewhat bemused, Time Lord, and said: "I have here some anti-plastic," he waved the vial of fluid, "and some hair dye," he waved the box, "if I dye my hair and grow a beard – though I'm not exactly sure how good this body is for beards, I haven't got the right kind of jaw – I can get a job in 10 Downing Street. Wait, wait wait wait. Before you start protesting; I won't kill anyone, except Plastic Man, and I can get close to him in under a fortnight, if I play my cards right. What do you think?"

The Doctor opened his mouth. Closed it again. Sighed. Raised a hand. Lowered it. Finally, he frowned. "That's…that might actually work. That's…brilliant. You're brilliant. You see? You see what you can do if you only try? Think how much good you'll be doing! It's things like this that make people go down in history, you know."

"No, making your horse a senator makes you go down in history. Hopefully no one will know about this. So, no one will remember me. At all." The Master looked dangerously close to pouting.

The Doctor rolled his eyes and sprang up from the chair. "Never mind that. Now, Downing Street? Allons-y!"

And _aller _they did. Well, sort of. The Master quickly realised that before he dyed his hair he'd probably have to _grow _his hair. So, before they could put into place their plan they would have to wait.

The Doctor did not like waiting. He was itching to get going, to set the TARDIS coordinates and begin, and set the plan in motion.

The Master, on the other hand, was much more patient. He watched the Doctor's obvious discomfort with something akin to amusement, and had to contain fits of hysterical laughter when he realised that the Doctor had not noticed that his captive's hair had grown long enough and the beginnings of a beard – sadly all the Master's latest body could achieve – had appeared around his jaw.

It was only when he finally deigned to get out the hair dye, which he chose not to question the presence of, and thoroughly bleach his hair, that the Doctor finally seemed to realise a difference.

"Oh! You're…blonde…"

The Master grinned. "Yup. Well, I do know how much you like them." He winked. _Winked._

The Doctor stammered and swallowed and said that they should probably be going then. The Master agreed that yes, they probably should.

They hadn't expected the weather to be so good. It was early June, but even so it was gloriously sunny and at least twenty-five degrees. The Doctor, who still refused to let the Master anywhere near the TARDIS controls, had chosen to land them in St James' Park and take the scenic route to Downing Street.

"It is," pointed out the Master very unhelpfully, "incredibly romantic out here, don't you think?"

"Shut up."

"So," the Doctor side-stepped round a woman with a pram and raised his over-active left eyebrow, "who are you? And, how old are you?"

The Master sighed. "Sam Wood. 36, born in Manchester, no family left. At least that part's true. Well, sort of."

The Doctor pulled a face at that and tugged on his ear. That was one particular wedding he'd rather forget, thank you very much.

They arrived, at last, at the gates to Downing Street, and the Master, who had already, somehow, managed to procure for himself a job, presented his ID and wandered off.

Against his better judgement, the Doctor waved.

There was little left for the Time Lord to do now except potter. He discovered a small café not too long after he set off and, having 'borrowed' ten pounds from an obliging cash point, decided to buy himself a cup of tea.

He was halfway through an astonishingly good cup of Earl Grey and a rather dog-eared copy of _Christopher and His Kind _that he'd dug out of the TARDIS library when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

_Bored out of my skull. I hate you._

_M_

The Doctor grinned, despite himself, and wondered whether or not he should reply.

In the end, he settled on something that was not too cruel but still made it perfectly clear that he felt any injustices the Master suffered were well deserved.

_It's your own fault, you know._

_It'll be over soon. See you in the TARDIS this evening._

_D_

He was still wondering whether or not this was a good idea. Letting the Master loose on the British Government again, so soon after his capture…and despite his apparent willingness to help he was still unstable. Very unstable. Rassilon knew what he'd get up to in the corridors of power, even if he was just answering phones and fetching coffee. Although, now the Doctor thought about it, that kind of work may actually drive him even more insane.

It was madness. Pure insanity, what was he _thinking?_ He'd let sentiment and a desire to forgive override his sense. He couldn't let the Master do this. It would be an act of such gross neglect as to almost count as genocide.

No. The Master would have to go.


	4. Boredom and Andy Coulson

**Boredom and Andy Coulson**

**Disclaimer: Yes yes yes, we all know Doctor Who doesn't belong to me! Though if it did there would be some _extreme _changes.**

**A/N: I know it's been forever since I last updated this but I do have a couple of legitimate excuses (well, I think they're legitimate, at least):**

**1. There has been _a lot _of childish nonsense going on with my friends which has taken up a huge amount of time and energy on my part and a few other people's, so I just haven't had the time or the inclination to write anything.**

**2. My sister is getting married on Friday, and as I am a bridesmaid and she is my sister I have been helping to prepare for the wedding. Frankly it's a wonder I've managed to post anything at all.**

**So sorry if this chapter's terrible and too short, but I am exhausted and incredibly nervous and stressed and several other things besides. Anyway, the show must go on!**

* * *

The Master was bored.

So bored, in fact, that he was beginning to feel sorry for all the secretaries and researchers and campaigners who had worked for him during his time as Prime Minister. Which was, understandably, an odd feeling.

He stretched back in his chair like a cat, and quietly surveyed his fellow researchers. They were mostly fairly young and, like him, _bored_.

He had forgotten that his government was not the norm. He had never taken his politics seriously enough to favour those who were good at their jobs; merely the prettiest or the funniest or the liveliest was promoted, usually on a whim, and then forgotten. After all, when you're planning to take over the universe pretty much single-handed, does it really matter which jobs go to whom? Probably not.

But now he discovered to his horror that to get anywhere near the vile Prime Minister and his sorry excuse for a deputy he would actually have to do some work. He had not planned for this.

However that was not to say he was incapable of advancing fairly quickly to a position of importance. He was charismatic, confident, 'sort of hypnotic' (and the Doctor thought he'd gotten away with that one, bless him), and he had something of a knack for politics. The only drawbacks were that he was both lazy and very, very angry.

He sighed and punched a few numbers into a spreadsheet. If he wanted to dispose of Cameron soon, he was going to have to get busy.

But he had to hand it to bureaucracy; he was already the manager of his particular research department and all it had taken for him to get there was a bit of messing around with the official government employee lists, and no one questioned his presence. Those working below him assumed he'd been brought in from another department; those working above thought he'd always been there - middle management was not really a great concern.

What was he doing? This was not the Master's style. Not his style at all. He should have hypnotised his way into the cabinet rooms and shot Cameron stone dead, and left the humans to clean up the mess. He and the Doctor would have been away in less than five minutes, problem solved, mission accomplished. Instead, the Doctor was spending all his time reading Greek philosophy (he'd finished _Christopher and His Kind_ in one afternoon) in cafés, and the Master was mindlessly punching figures into spreadsheets and shouting at graduate students. He wondered what their friends would say if they could see the two of them now.

The Master shook his head. Reminiscing would have to wait. He had work to do.

-x-x-x-

The Doctor was indeed at that moment in a café, although he was not reading works of Greek philosophy - or anything else for that matter. He was far too busy plotting a way to get rid of the Master.

Of course he would not kill him. The Doctor was fairly certain he couldn't ever kill the Master, no matter how much he might want to. And besides, he'd already committed genocide on the Time Lord race once. He'd rather not have to do it again. But the Master still had to go.

The Doctor could easily keep him in the TARDIS; she was bitter after the Year that Never Was and would take great delight in locking him up in long-forgotten rooms for hours on end to keep him out of trouble, so holding the Time Lord would not be a problem. No. The problem would be _capturing _him. Despite the fact he returned to the TARDIS every evening and allowed the Doctor to transport him to and from work – all of which the Doctor found highly suspicious – even the smallest hint of an attempt to lock him up and he'd just disappear. He had done it before. No doubt he would do it again.

So he sighed, and tried to read; but the words kept swimming about on the page, so instead he thought about the Master. Maybe he was being too suspicious. Maybe the Master really did just want to help. But that was about as likely as an Alucrian marsh pig learning to ride a tricycle. Perhaps he should talk to him. Yes; yes, in fact that was what he would do. He would talk to him. Eventually.

And then, suddenly, the Master appeared in the doorway. After buying himself a cup of tea and a sandwich he took the seat opposite the Doctor and smiled at him.

"Hello,"

The Doctor stared, bemused, at his old friend.

"Doctor? You seem a little shocked. It's only me you know. I've got an hour for lunch so I thought I'd come and join you."

"Really?" It was not particularly profound but at least he'd got his voice back.

"Well, no. This thing's driving me insane – well, more insane than I already am. Would it not be quicker to just slip some antiplastic into his tea and then make a run for it?"

The Doctor frowned. "No. We need to be able to sort out this mess – look what happened last time, after all! You get deposed and they end up electing an auton. No, no no. We have to do this properly."

"But there's another person in place to take power. Can we please just go? I'm bored!"

"I don't care. And besides, we don't know how many of them there are. I don't trust that Murdoch bloke; very suspect if you ask me. In fact the whole News International team looks pretty dodgy. Isn't one of them working for Cameron?"

"Some ex-editor of _News of the World_, or something. One of that lot, anyway. Andy Coulson! That's the one. They're all a bit odd though. Maybe I ought to slip them a little something too?"

"You could. It certainly wouldn't hurt," the Doctor leant back in his chair and stared blankly at the ceiling, "Master…"

"Yes?"

"I've been thinking about this for a while now and…well there's no easy way to say this, but…I have to. I don't trust you."

"What a surprise."

"I don't. And I'm beginning to wonder whether or not this is a good idea. After this is finished, I don't…I can't…I'm not going to let you go free, you know. You're staying on the TARDIS with me."

"What, forever and ever and ever?" The Master was more than sarcastic. He may even have fluttered his eyelashes.

"For as long as it takes. Just let me help you."

Suddenly all hint of humour was gone and the Master's eyes went black. "Piss off, Doctor."

And just like that, the Master was gone.


End file.
